‘Malakas!!’ exclaimed a familiar voice from behind the counter. ‘Athenian asshole.’ Takis’s rubbery features appeared. He was holding a pack of bottled water. ‘What does he know? The fishermen used to sleep there, so you are not changing the usage. He is scared because he knows I am on the committee that will decide about his holiday house.’ He smiled impishly and tapped the side of his nose. ‘What food are you taking to the party today?’

This time it was Nell’s turn to look smug. She reached under the table and produced two large bags of vegetables and other groceries. ‘Would you mind if I used your kitchen for a bit of preparation?’

Takis bowed. ‘My kitchen is your kitchen.’

‘I thought I might introduce them to a bit of Ottolenghi.’

‘What is Ottolenghi?’ demanded Takis enthusiastically. ‘Is it is some kind of pasta?’

‘It’s the name of a chef,’ Nell laughed.

‘But isn’t he Turkish?’ Penny asked. ‘Is that a good idea? You know . . . the Greeks and the Turks . . .’

‘I thought he was Lebanese, actually,’ Nell challenged.

‘Yotam Ottolenghi,’ announced Dora, reading from her phone, ‘born Jerusalem. English-Israeli chef.’

‘Well, there you go. Do you think the Greeks are ready for all that chopping?’ Penny teased. ‘It drives me mad. Give me good old Delia any day.’

‘Come on, girls,’ Nell encouraged them. ‘We’re going to show them there’s more to life than moussaka.’

‘Rather you than me,’ Dora commented. ‘Anyway, I’m going to the beach.’

‘Via the olive grove?’ Nell raised an eyebrow. ‘Let’s hope Mr Georgiades doesn’t catch you.’

Dora ignored them, and picked up her beach bag. ‘Good luck, one and all,’ she waved as she headed up the hill away from the village.

It was another glorious morning. The sea sparkled enticingly through the olive trees, and there was a scent of pine that reminded her of holidays in the South of France before her parents got divorced and Dora was left with her increasingly bitter mother. She made her way through wild oleanders and scented yellow broom. In the distance she could hear goat bells from Ariadne’s goats and soon Juno, her devoted admirer, appeared on the precipitous path next to her. Somewhere in the distance she heard the distinctive call of the cuckoo, one of the only birds she could actually recognize.

Ariadne’s sweet and eager face appeared over the next ridge.

‘Is that a cuckoo?’ Dora enquired. ‘Or don’t you have them in Greece?’

Ariadne looked shocked. ‘Of course we do. Cuckoos are famous here. Do you not know that Zeus, the king of the gods, pretended to be a poor wet little cuckoo so that Hera held him to her breast, and then he turned back into Zeus and forced his love on her?’